Defence Against The Dark Arts
by Kay Taylor
Summary: (short) Resurrecting Sirius.


The first time Harry raised Sirius, he was a horrible, bubbling thing, reaching out of the cauldron with misshapen hands, skin sloughing off in great sodden strips, opening his mouth but making no sound. Harry, who had faced up to Lord Voldemort's sickly, grub-like body without any more than a shiver, fell backwards and was violently sick. His godfather watched him from the cauldron, his eyes pale and milky-white, like moonlight through clouds.  
  
The second time, he hadn't got the skin right. In their third year, Snape had shown them potions requiring levrets - skinned, new-born hares, with their muscles glistening pink and raw in the dim dungeon lights. Hermione had applied a knife to hers with her mouth set in grim determination. Ron had looked away in horror, and muttered something about taking notes' instead. And now Sirius was the same; ligaments standing out taut as raw-hide, bones of palest grey, and a deep and disgusting shade of pinky-red covering his face. No nose to speak of. Eyes bulging out from the delicate tracery of muscles around the sockets. Harry heaved, but didn't throw up, and felt marginally better about himself afterwards. He was translating one of the words wrong, he realised.  
  
The third time was the worst, because it reeked of despair; early September rain lashing down outside, and the sound of Kreacher muttering and dragging himself around the rooms below. The Order had deserted Grimmauld Place when they'd realised the treacherous house-elf was passing information to the Malfoys, and the dust had settled as though the house had been abandoned for years, centuries. Harry had to use his cloak to sweep the grime off the floor of the attic room, down on his hands and knees getting chalk all over his hands as the wind whistled through the eaves. The bread smelled stale, and when Sirius rose out of the cauldron Harry's heart had caught in his chest; long black hair, brown eyes, dark skin, the tiny birthmark on one side of his neck. It was Sirius, finally, and Harry had taken two steps across the circle before he realised that the eyes were blank, staring, and no pulse beat beneath the strawberry-red birthmark. Sirius was dead. If anything, more dead than before.  
  
The fourth time Harry raised Sirius was two weeks into the new term, risking an illegal Apparation on a Hogsmeade weekend. The nights had started to draw in, and Harry had put candles around the room, faintly pleased with the serious atmosphere they lent the occasion. They burnt unwavering; and Sirius rose up once again, perfect, unblemished.   
  
Harry whispered, his heart hammering. Can you hear me?  
  
And the dead man turned his head, slowly, ponderously.  
  
he said, his voice hoarse, and Harry felt prickling behind his eyes. _Send me back_, the dead man said, and his eyes were accusing. _It's too late, and I'm blind here_.  
  
Harry insisted. I -   
  
The door to the attic opened, a slow dark creaking in the candlelit room. Harry jumped at the sudden noise, feeling absurdly afraid; after all, he was the one standing in the centre of a magic circle with his dead godfather's head and shoulders above the bubbling, roiling water of the cauldron.  
  
came a familiar voice. And then a sharp intake of breath.   
  
_Send me back, Remus_, the dead man insisted. _Let me sleep, you and Harry._  
  
Remus stepped into the light; threadbare robes, his Werewolf Registry number just visible beneath one tattered sleeve. Old, old eyes. His wand, nine-inch cedar, tucked into his belt. It is you, he whispered. I heard your voice.  
  
_This is not the place for me_, Sirius insisted, his voice like stones scraping over dry earth. But Remus stepped forward, into the magic circle, beside Harry. And reached into the cauldron, hands beneath Sirius' arms, dragging him out.  
  
Harry's throat was tight with fear. Remus, it isn't right. _Remus -_  
  
Remus finished pulling Sirius out of the cauldron. Naked, and painfully thin, and covered in scratches, bruises; _bites_. Dark hair wet and stinking and spilling down his back. Jutting hipbones. It isn't right, Harry whispers, his mouth dry, as Remus picked the dead man up, and stepped out of the circle.  
  
_Let me go,_ the dead man said, once again.  
  
Remus shook his head. 


End file.
